


The treasure of the dawn

by Lilyssy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Fall of Gondolin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 11:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15862440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilyssy/pseuds/Lilyssy
Summary: Every morning, Maeglin went up to one of the highest part of the city's remparts, to enjoy the peace of the dawn. He knew that was only an illusion of peace, for peace he would never know again, but he basked in that fluttering feeling, if only for a few instants. Pre Fall of Gondolin.





	The treasure of the dawn

**Author's Note:**

> It's been ages since I last posted something Silmarillion related. This one shot had been on my hard drive for months, and only recently, I took the time to finish it. It's short, not very joyful (ey, it's about Maeglin after all) and with no action or adventure whatsoever.  
> I don't know if Maeglin is in character. I've been wanting to write him for a long time but I've not read much about him. This one shot is thus more a headcanon version of him, I guess.

There is a moment, between the awakening of the mind and the body, when consciousness floats about between dream and reality.

Maeglin believed that moment was perfect. The images of his nightmares, filled with memories of pain, utter darkness and fear faded away, replaced by the calm preceding the rise of the sun. He enjoyed the peace of the moment, for it was not yet time to rise, go out of his chambers and face the outside world. Only a few minutes of respite before confronting another nightmare, the nightmare of his days.

That moment was his only time of rest, far from the enemy’s clutches and the stare of the people. Every morning, he could feel the control the Dark One had on his mind wavered, as if there was a world, between night and day, when he was unreachable.

And that day made no exception.

He turned in his bed, resisting the morning. Through the open windows, a warm breeze entered, tingling his skin into prickly fleshbumps. The light wind carried the smell of a summer morning in Gondolin, the delicate sent of blooming flowers and the pure cool air of the Echoriath. Maeglin could also hear the singing of white birds and the clear waters of nearby fountains. In another life, those sounds and smells would certainly have lulled him back to sleep, inviting him to remain in bed, the promise of safety and warmth. Two things he had long forgotten.

Maeglin’s eyes shot open, and he knew that it was time to get out of bed. His chambers were still dark, only the first pastel lights of dawn coloured the room, with the hints of pinks and purplish-blues peeking through the partially drawn curtains. He cast his blanket aside and stood. He shivered when his bare feet met the cool marbled floor and he hurried to get dressed.

Such the wind of a winter night, cold, gloomy and silent, Maeglin walked down the corridors of the King’s palace. He encountered no-one on his way and was glad for it. By now a familiar path, he went out of the building by a secondary door, to rally the ramparts of the Hidden City. He knew by heart the turns of the guards and managed to avoid them; not that the Prince found wandering the corridors at dawn would raise suspicions, but questions would certainly be asked, and Maeglin did not want to answer them. Or rather could not answer them truthfully.

He soon reached his destination, one of the highest part of the ramparts. It had been his post of choice for the past few months, a place where he could pretend the peace of dawn lasted a bit longer than the only awakening of his body and mind. He knew that was only an illusion of peace, for peace he would never know again, but he basked in that fluttering feeling, if only for a few instants.

Beyond the stoned wall before him, there was only emptiness. A thick fog masked the view, giving the impression that no outside world existed beyond the walls of the city.

Maeglin’s eyes were soon lost in the white gray mist, and his mind went wandering, as it often did since his return to Gondolin. Around him, only the singing of the first birds and the wind blowing could be heard. The inhabitants of his uncle’s city had not yet risen, and he savored the silence, a passing thing, this silence.

Somewhat inevitably, Maeglin thought of the day ahead. If his nights were full of his memories of the horrific times he had spent in the clutches of the Dark One, his days were spent bearing with the suspicious glares of the people. Maeglin knew that he had never been loved, unless, maybe, by the members of his own house. The general population saw him as the disheveled nephew of their beloved King, a child who had lost both parents in tragic and unfortunate circumstances. But none of them had ever made the effort to see their beloved Aredhel in him. They only saw the features off the dark elf that had once entered their hidden city to claim his wife and son, with only malevolent intentions in his heart. They distrusted Maeglin, and his absence of the last year had not made things easier for him.

Maeglin did not really wished for the love of the people. He may had, at some point, in his first years in Gondolin. As an orphan who had been fostered by his kingly uncle, anchorless and with no family, he had wished for the love of this people of which his mother had spoken so fondly. The one whose love he had most sought had been Turgon, but never the King of Gondolin had given him that love. If Maeglin had been gifted with everything anyone else could have wanted, a title, a seat at the King’s council and even his own house, the only thing he wanted, he never obtained. In his young heart, be loved by his uncle as he had been loved by his mother would have been the greatest of gifts. He envied the love Turgon had for Idril, this bond with a parent that he would never know again.

But Turgon had never bestowed his love on his nephew. He had given him gifts of wealth and power, certainly out of guilt to have deprived Maeglin of his parents or for the death of his sister. But his uncle had never loved him, for in Maeglin’s features, quiet nature and obsidian eyes, he had always seen the dark elf who had taken is sister from him.

Maeglin now considered the need for love of his younger self with a great condescension. What a fool child he had been! And ever since he had realized that his uncle would never give him his affection , he had been hiding himself behind a stoic and somber demeanour, not an inviting facade, but one which served him well.

Ever since his return from Angband , things had worsened. Maeglin ignored if people could see the dark aura of the Enemy around him. Even if Morgoth’s spell did not deprive him of free will, he knew there were things he could not do; such as warning the people of Gondolin that, one day, near or far he could not tell, the armies of the Dark One would descent on the valley, destroying anything and anyone in their wake.

Even if he had wanted, warn, he could not.

But He had promised; he had promised love, reciprocated love, something else of which he was deprived. She was the most beautiful creature in all Arda. He had heard tales of the beauty of Lúthien Tinuviel, daughter of maia and elda, the most beautiful among the Children of Iluvatar. But even that magnificent maiden could not compete with her beauty.

The Dark One had promised. And Maeglin could hear him whispering in his mind, both in the day or in his dreams, that He would keep his promise. Maeglin kept convincing himself of that. To keep his resolve.

Otherwise, how could he justify his betrayal?

As it was that instant of the day when the enemy’s control on his mind wavered, Maeglin’s conscience started to question his decision. 

Would it have been better if he had died? Why did he betray his uncle, his house, his city so easily? How could he ever believe the promises of Melkor? Why had he not resisted longer? How could he blame the people of Gondolin not to trust him when he betrayed them at the first occasion he got? Why did he resemble his father so much?

Questions twirled at the forefront of his mind, such thousands of voices which would not stop. Answering them scared Maeglin, even more, maybe, than the threats and tortures of Morgoth’s lieutenant. In his rare instants of clear-sightedness, his thoughts often took that direction, and he could not bear it. It was like an endless abyss opening under his feet, swallowing him in a turmoil of fear, doubts and shame.

He tried to avert his thoughts, to reject all those questions he did not want to answer. He had nothing to prove! He had suffered beyond what all those pitiful Gondolin elves believed possible! He had no choice but betray! What did they know of the tortures? Of the pain, of mutilated body and broken mind?

The sudden cry of a bird startled him. So engulfed in his own reflection was he that he jumped, nearly passing over the wall. Maeglin looked up at the sky and saw a flock of black birds; ravens, an inauspicious presage. At their sight a smile, full of derision and irony, passed over his features. Oh, if only they knew.

And with their cry, the peace of dawn was shattered.

Maeglin closed his eyes and let out a long breath. He could already feel the mental clutches of the enemy taking control back. Those instants of lucidity were few and far between, only with the rising and setting of Anor could he think freely again.

The peace was gone, and Maeglin’s mind tried to resist, until the darkness filled it. The darkness smothered any rebellious acts he could think to accomplish. Maeglin’s gaze mist over for a brief instant, and his face became expressionless once again. Inside, his mind screamed out in pain under the pressure of the enemy’s spell, but there was nothing he could do.

The day came again, its light chasing away the last remnant of night which still lingered in the shadows of the high walls or the narrowest streets of the city. Anor rose, in all her glory, permanent snow of the Echoriath sparkled such diamonds, birds sang louder and the inhabitants of Gondolin started their daily business under the bright blue sky.

And Maeglin soon disappeared in the shadow of the tower, running away from all that life, of that light. His place was now in darkness; had been since the enemy captured him, would be for the rest of his eternity, until the fall of Gondolin and beyond.

Already, he craved the peace of the next dawn. And he knew the last would come soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by the song For the braves, by Nazca.


End file.
